PART ONE

Lift up your veils.
You are someone else
below.
Your eyes are stored
in the most voluptuous
swell of the carafe.

**

You are a Trojan horse
whose body is the
farthest from corporeal
realisation.
You are made of wood
and sawdust from
the workshop has
dried out your last stand.

***


You are a forgotten sculpture.
He has brought you
to an auction
from a garage sale
and seated you
on a stool
in the deep-end of suburbia
and nostalgia,
on a Friday night.

They don’t
think much of you.
Your only artfulness
is that you are
from overseas
and have been held
like a golden statuette
around February to March
by some of the
proprietors
then living in la-la land.


****


You know
your last place
is not here
but in the back-seat
of a rundown Ford
tumbling down
a highway
without cheap hotels
or almost any policeman.

Eventually,
you will be rusted and bronzed
and thrown out
till some others
hold you in their image
and in their slippery hands.

Your veil has been lifted.
Your time has been crunched.

Your sheen has been polished
but you are pawned.



*****



Your eyes have now dissolved
in the thinning end of
the carafe.
You are now the smell of
sawdust alone
and the golden fritters
of your value
is void in the marketplace.
You are now another discard
off the shelf.

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